He sleeps although so much he was denied. He lived and when his dear love left him died. It happened of itself, in the easy way that in the morning night time follows day

It is on December nights, with the thermometer at zero, that we most think of the sun.

What is more melancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for the first and the last time? To travel is to be born and to die at every instant;

Each of our passions, even love, has a stomach that must not be overloaded. We must in all things write the word finis in time; we must restrain ourselves, when it becomes urgent, draw the bolt on the appetite, play a fantasia on the violin, then break the strings with our own hand.

he never was known to have a sweetheart; he had not time to be in love.

To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there.

To-morrow fulfils its work irresistibly, and it is already fulfilling it to-day.

Winter changes the water of heaven and the heart of man into a stone.

It is the features of the years that makes up the face of the century.

He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, He lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, As the night comes when day is gone. a

It is the lineaments of the years which form the countenance of the century.

The house, it's already been a-settin' here for a hundred years. It'll be right here tomorrow. It's today I must be livin'.